


Broken Toy

by kenporusty



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Hobbit Holiday Exchange, M/M, Thorin is a good little bottom, dub con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 10:17:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenporusty/pseuds/kenporusty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin is Azog's captive, and as Azog's captive, he must obey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Toy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> This was a fill for the Hobbit Holiday Exchange for the lovely [Dwarf Smut](http://dwarfsmut.tumblr.com) over on Tumblr.
> 
> She wanted Azog/Thorin, and she wanted explicit. Here you go, darling, I do hope you enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> (Thank you, insaneboingo, for doing a quick beta on this!)

_“Ah, there you are my pet,”_ Azog chuckled, _“hiding in your room like a scared boy.”_

Thorin looked up sharply. He’d deciphered enough Black Speech to infer what Azog said.

 _“’m not scared,”_ Thorin returned in rather broken Black Speech.

 _“You should be,”_ the Defiler returned in Kuzdhul.

It was a give and take, what they had. Living in close quarters, it was a given the two would learn each other’s tongues.

Azog smiled when he saw Thorin flinch almost imperceptibly.

_“Bathe, I’ll send something up for you.”_

With that, the door slammed shut. Thorin hugged his knees before sighing heavily. How he, the King Under the Mountain, got himself into this position he wondered to himself every day. From the room in Dol Goldur, he could see the Mirkwood; the infected, infested forest. The days of wandering without air, light, fresh water, and with the toxins affecting every sense returned to him in the night.

As did...

He often woke screaming. A sea of blood lapped at his consciousness. The dead on the battlefield. His nephews, his friends, his allies, his enemies. They were all lost to him. Azog found him on the battlefield, broken but not dead. He begged Azog to take his head. To kill him. Such a fate would be worse than watching Dain take the throne. Who wants a King broken beyond recognition? A King who cannot walk from the Throne to his people on a whim?

He awoke again within the cold stonewalls of Dol Goldur. Azog struck fear into his heart.

He was left broken, curled upon himself, clutching at his own body, threatening to rend the stitched that held him together. The Orc healer yelled something in Black Speech and Thorin quailed. The healer was gentle as Oin, replacing torn stitches, staunching bleeding, and giving Thorin a thick drink that made the pain bleed from his body.

Azog returned time after time, day after day, Thorin learning when the pale Orc was in a foul mood, or what irritated him. He learned to submit, to be placid, to paw at the Orc’s feet to save himself the extra pain.

 ***

A faint scratching at the door of his room caught his attention, drawing him out of his thoughts.

 _“Coming,”_ he barked. The Black Speech felt so raw and unfeeling on his tongue. Dwarvish was not banned, but the Orcs understood it as much as they understood Sindaran. Not much.

The hinges creaked as the old door swung open. Daisy stood before Thorin. A summons. He had his chance to bathe, and lost it to meandering thoughts.

If Dis could see him, what would she say…

 

Thorin gathered himself and looked haughtily at the white Warg before the great beast lowered herself to the ground for him. A fearsome demeanor hid a beast that cared for her master and his toys. Unswervingly loyal. Azog could not ask for more.

Thorin pulled himself astride the beast with great effort, clinging to the rough coat as Daisy rushed through the worn and broken paths of the fortress.

 _“Did you bathe and eat, pet?”_ Azog asked, striding across the great room, the Black Speech echoing off bare walls.

He ran his fingers through Thorin’s tangled mane, almost soothingly. Thorin braced himself for what he knew would come. Fingers tightened in his hair and Thorin was pulled off Daisy, dropped on the cold floor. He ground his teeth, not allowing the pain to show on his face. He pushed himself onto his knees, hanging his head, hiding his face among the planes of raven hair streaked with silver.

 _“No,”_ Thorin switched from Black Speech to Dwarvish, _“I had no time before your beast summoned me.”_

Azog pushed his hair to the side, _“You need to eat, keep up your strength, pet.”_

Thorin looked up, steeling himself. He turned his face to the rough flesh, letting Azog’s fingers trace the yet unmarred skin of his cheek.

_“You know what I desire of you.”_

_“I live to comply.”_

_“Good pet.”_

Azog waved Daisy away, pacing a circle around the still kneeling Thorin.

_“You’ve been so good. I think I shall reward you.”_

_“I live to serve you.”_

The cold tines of Azog’s prosthetic traced down Thorin’s back. The King shivered.

_“Strip bare for me.”_

Thorin shucked off the dark blue shirt, pulling it over his head, stretching as he was freed. Muscles shifted and bunched beneath his skin. Old scars from the Battle shone white on his skin, permanent reminders that he should not be here. He should not be alive, undressing under the iron gaze of the Defiler.

Azog watched approvingly as Thorin stood, head up, defiant, and unlaced his trousers. He stripped of these slower than his shirt, noting that Azog slowed his pace, inspecting him closer. Surprisingly warm skin touched his own. Fingers tracing the scars, trailing lower, following the dark hair to his groin.

Thorin long gave up on his embarrassment at his own body’s reaction. He now embraced the arousal he felt around the Pale Orc. The promise of release stirred in him, his cock hardening more as Azog wrapped his hand around him, moving with long, slow strokes.

_“I desire your flesh. Submit to me.”_

_“I am yours to use.”_

Thorin was thrown backwards, landing on his backside and sliding along the cool stone. Azog stalked after him, divesting himself of his furs and smalls. Thorin watched with a strange giddy hunger. He knew what would come and he embraced it. He looked up at Azog, eyes tracing the contours of his chest, his stomach, every deep scar that forever guided his eyes to the juncture of well-defined legs. There Thorin let his eyes remain, drinking the sight of the Orc’s cock, coming to full hardness as he was scrutinized like a pound of flesh on the butcher’s block.

Thorin caught the jar tossed to him by Azog. The Orc sneered at him as Thorin dipped his fingers into the cool fluid, coating the digits well. He set the jar aside, spreading his legs, exposing himself completely to his captor.

At the end of the day, he was reduced to nothing but an object to be used and tossed away.

He easily slid one finger into himself, biting his lip and closing his eyes, desperate to think of the pleasure and not the lecherous gaze he felt burning into his skin. His body acted on its own accord and bucked, seeking more, always seeking more.

 _“Such a filthy whore,”_ Azog’s voice was unctuous with arousal.

Thorin bit back a moan as he pushed in a second finger, resting to give himself time to adjust. He pumped his fingers into himself, scissoring his digits, stretching his rim. He dropped his head back, supporting his weight on his elbow as he lost himself in sensation. He deliberately avoided his prostate; he didn’t want to be worked up so much he would come easily. He made a small whine at the penetrating thought of Azog pegging the gland.

 _“I’m ready for you,”_ Thorin choked out, sliding his hands free, moving his other elbow to the floor and looking up at the Orc.

Azog took the jar, slicking his cock, fisting the thick organ slowly, keeping eye contact with Thorin. He smiled as he saw Thorin’s pupils dilate, the darkness invading the icy blue until barely a sliver remained. A massive hand lifted Thorin from the ground, guiding him onto his knees.

Truly, the size difference between an Orcish and Dwarvish finger can never be compared until one has an Orc finger pressed into the warm heat of one’s body. Thorin keened, pressing back against the finger, relishing in the stretch. He bucked his hips as the finger curled, massaging the knot inside Thorin, making stars dance in the Dwarf’s vision. Azog laughed, a throaty, rasping sound, as he pulled his finger free, replacing it with the head of his cock.

He held Thorin’s hips still as he breached his Dwarf’s rim, pressing into the dusky ring of muscle, groaning as the King below him gasped and panted and bit his lip so hard it drew blood. The Orc was so large; it always took Thorin by surprise when he was penetrated. Azog watched hungrily as his pale cock disappeared into Thorin’s body slowly. His body wanted to buck forward, to thrust into Thorin, to ruin him absolutely by fucking him hard and fast.

But what use is a broken toy?

So Azog held off, waiting until his hips met the perfect globes of Thorin’s backside. Waiting until Thorin adjusted to being so full. Marveling at how such a tiny being can take such a huge thing.

 _“Look at you, my pet,”_ Azog ran his fingers through Thorin’s hair, pulling the dark tresses, forcing his head back with a choked off sound. _“You look so lovely taking me like this. I should have Daisy hold you still while I fuck you until you bleed.”_

 _“Eat shit, filth,”_ Thorin spat.

_“Ha, eat shit? How you would love to have my tongue on you, in you, making you clench and moan until you came from that alone. Maybe another day, maybe another day.”_

Thorin pieced together enough to know what Azog said, _“I would rather die.”_

_“Ah, that can be arranged.”_

Strong fingers gripped Thorin’s hip as Azog’s hips moved, slowly at first, drawing out achingly slow before snapping back in, seating himself once more with a feral growl. Thorin writhed, the burn mingling with pleasure as he lost himself to sensation, body jumping every time their hips met. Cold metal met burning skin, making Thorin writhe in his place, arching away from the sudden temperature change. Azog held him, prosthetic on his back; hand on his hip, riding the waves of pleasure the clenching and moaning Dwarf gave him.

He stopped, earning a needing whine from the former King. He pulled out entirely, flipping Thorin onto his back with practiced ease. He held onto Thorin’s leg just behind the knee, pressing the limb back toward his chest. Thorin watched hungrily as the Orc moved to reseat himself, sliding once more in with slick ease. Azog drizzled more oil between them, rumbling in the back of his throat. He could never get enough of his Dwarf’s hole.

The prosthetic rested on the hard stone, Azog’s good hand guiding Thorin’s leg over his shoulder, then scooping Thorin’s hips up. He leaned into the Dwarf, thrusting hard and deep, waves of pleasure racing over and through his body.

Below him, the back of Thorin’s head met the floor, flushed with arousal, his own prick hard and leaking, begging for release. His throat felt raw, his arms and legs, shook, his vision swam, stars igniting their fire and dying in his vision. He felt so very full and so very close to coming.

Above Thorin, Azog shifted his hips, brushing Thorin’s prostate on every stroke. The star fire in the Dwarf’s eyes doubled, his cried out loudly, begging in nonsense words half-formed of Khuzdul, Black Speech, and Westron. Azog, ever in control, ever dominant faltered, hips stuttering in their brutal pace. Thorin whined when the Orc avoided his prostate, and keened when he struck it. Azog made a game of it, seeing how broken he could make Thorin Oakenshield below him.

He would come before Thorin.

The sound Thorin made when the Orc leaned forward, sinking his teeth into the tender flesh of the Dwarf’s neck is what sent Azog over the edge. Thorin’s needy, whorish moan stirred something in the Orc, unleashing the coiled chain of pleasure and orgasm. He buried himself in Thorin, filling the smaller being with his seed. His entire body shook, and if not for the prosthetic firmly planted, he would have fallen.

A thick, shaking hand wrapped around Thorin’s hard cock, stroking haltingly. Thorin only needed a little attention before he came over Azog’s hand with a hoarse cry. Azog licked Thorin’s seed from his hand and ran his fingers through the sweaty mane spread on the floor.

He slipped easily out of Thorin, stood, and walked to a washbasin, wiping himself down with a wet cloth. He tossed another wet cloth at Thorin, who weakly caught it, using it to clean the filth from his body. Azog dressed, leaving the room, sending Daisy in to curl up next to the Dwarf, who clung to her warmth, drifting in and out of a restless sleep.

 

Thorin awoke in his room, in his bed, with a plate of what could be called food cooling on a tray. His whole body ached, as it would for some time, and it pained him to sit upright.

But he would persevere. This was the price he paid for his capture. For his imprisonment. So close to Erebor, and yet so far away.


End file.
